


Lucid Dreaming: FFXIV Write 2019

by The Rose Mistress (Semilune)



Series: Hear, Feel, Think [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Baking, Best Friends, Breakfast, Bromance, Cookies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Drinking Games, Emotional Constipation, Epic Bromance, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fortemps & Friends, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sex, Literal Sleeping Together, Memories, Multi, Naked Cuddling, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sparring, Teasing, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-06 22:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: Literally all Estinien POV right now.  Estinien/WoL and Estinien/Aymeric Fluff for your reading pleasure!✦ SPOILERS! Mainly Heavensward. Connects back to "Astral Fire, Umbral Heart." Sorry for potential OOC in advance; I'm truly trying to post without editing!FFXIVWrite Challenge run by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast on tumblr!★ Rated "M" for now.  Chapter one is ToC.❅ Prompt #7: Forgiven (Estinien/WoL, Estinien & Aymeric, implied historical Estinien/Aymeric).Tell him how she burns you, you coward.Tell him how she sets you on fire.Tell him, tell him—He never concealed things from Aymeric.  Never, never.It was sacrilege to think it, let alone to perpetrate the act.And yet, here he was, committing the unforgivable.And why?  What was the reason?  What in seven swiving hells was he afraid of?





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Giving this a shot!
> 
> I hope I can create some nice relaxed fluff for this!

❦ **Foreword **❦

My first attempt at a FFXIV Write Challenge!

The plan for now is to let this be "little snapshots" of fluff and otherwise that can fit into [Astral Fire, Umbral Heart.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668/chapters/28699292)

Thank you, as always, for reading.

* * *

☙ **Table of Contents **❧

* * *

☄** Lucid Dreaming **☄

  1. **Table of Contents  
**You are here!
  2. **Prompt #1: Voracious**  
Estinien/WoL, Estinien POV. Fortemps & Friends, domestic fluff and cookies. After the events of "Into the Aery."
  3. **Prompt #2: Bargain**  
Estinien & Aymeric, Estinien POV. Bro fluff, drinking, slash if you squint. Early relationship, pre-ARR.
  4. **Prompt #3: Lost**  
Estinien/WoL, Estinien POV. Gently NSFW. Fluff, cuddling, naked people. Memory of a moment after the events of "Into the Aery."
  5. **Prompt #4: Shifting Blame  
**Estinien/woL, Estinien POV. Gently NSFW. Sparring, humor, implied sex. After the events of "Into the Aery."
  6. **Prompt #5: Vault**  
Estinien/WoL, Estinien POV. Itty bitty, poem-esque. After the events of "Into the Aery."
  7. **Prompt #6: First Steps**  
Estinien & WoL, Estinien POV. Close friendship and bed sharing with a touch of pining. Before the events of "Into the Aery."
  8. **Prompt #7: Forgiven  
**Estinien/WoL, Estinien & Aymeric, implied historical Estinien/Aymeric. Around the events of "Into the Aery."

❦

* * *


	2. Prompt #1: Voracious (Estinien/WoL & Friends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Laugh at me some more,” he grumbled, glaring down at her, “And I can show you exactly where to shove your godsdamned biscuits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien POV. I live and die for some domestic fluff, y'all. After the events of "Into the Aery."

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

“My mother’s family recipe,” she explained. 

She had been baking since dawn, robed in a dress and an apron, her hair tied back. A streak of flour was ashen on her chin. She kept her eyes on Estinien as she handed one lumpy, crumbly, sugar-dusted pastry to Alphinaud. “You should try one, you would like it.”

The boy was cramming the entire biscuit in his mouth, chewing and nodding through the storm of crumbs and sugar that threatened to spew from his lips. He half swallowed and covered his mouth with a napkin as he spoke through the mess. “_Gods _yes, Estinien,” he mumbled, trying to protect his necktie from the carnage. “I beg you would try it—”

Estinien grunted and stared at the already half-eaten platter. Powdered sugar was piled everywhere upon it like a snowdrift. A few stray hunks of cookie-flesh and walnuts broke the white expanse. He knew the way he wrinkled his nose made him look like _maybe_ he wanted to _sniff it_, and he knew he reminded her strongly of a _dog_ when she choked on the laugh that bubbled to her lips. “Laugh at me some more,” he grumbled, glaring down at her, “And I can show you exactly where to shove your godsdamned _biscuits_.”

“How about starting with your _mouth_,” she suggested, picking one up. She held it out to him on the flat of her palm in offering. “_Please?_”

He gave her his finest deadpan expression, crossed his arms, and scowled, looming there over the kitchen table in his Ishgardian plainclothes.

“Oh, I _thought _I smelled something _delectable_.” Emmanellain de Fortemps swaggered into the kitchen, buttoning his collar. “Alphinaud, capital job convincing our old girl to bake them again.” He snagged a plate from the cupboard and piled it with sugar and cookies, glancing at Estinien in mild surprise. “Early morning, Ser Dragoon?”

Before Estinien could stab him with an answer, the teakettle started to whistle—and before their _unusually domestic hero_ could get up and fetch whatever else she planned to _serve them_, Alphinaud stopped her. “Allow me,” he said kindly, giving her a timid smile. “You really should be resting—we only _just _returned from Dravania.”

“It’s been three days,” she said, laughing, shaking her head at him fondly. “But if you _want_ to start the tea, I won’t stop you.”

Emmanellain was already at the pantry, still holding his plate, chewing a biscuit, rummaging through the tea tins. “Coerthan or something a tad more _exotic?_”

“Coerthan if you _please_.” Estinien’s grunt as he sank to the chair beside her—the one unoccupied by Alphinaud—before _Emmanellain_ could take it. She put the cookie on a napkin and slid the offering across the altar to leave it in front of him. He could feel her grinning at him and pointedly avoided her eyes. “This is a poor choice of breakfast,” he muttered.

“But a _delicious one_,” Emmanellain blustered. The boys bumbled around in the background with the tea and Estinien stared at the biscuit in front of him.

“Oh, _please eat it_,” she said, knocking his knee with hers beneath the table.

He turned to her and scowled—scowled at the maddening way her eyes glittered—the maddening way she _kept smiling_—the maddening streak of flour or sugar that lined her chin and made him want to _lick it off._

He crammed the crumbling cookie in his mouth and raised his eyebrows as he chewed it.

It was good.

It was _passably delicious._

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *


	3. Prompt #2: Bargain (Estinien/Aymeric Bromance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked at him through his long silver lashes like a wolf sizing up unfortunate prey. “If I finish mine, you never ask me to come home with you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”T,” bro fluff, Estinien & Aymeric, slash if you squint. Estinien POV. Drinking games, early relationship, pre-ARR.

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

“I will not.”

Aymeric smirked at his churlish comrade, lifting his eyebrows. “I can promise _good food_ to be had there,” he continued, and when Estinien felt his face slacken slightly, Aymeric grinned in _vicious triumph,_ surely knowing he struck at a weakness. “Simone is the finest culinarian in Coerthas—”

“_No,_” Estinien insisted, shaking himself back into stone. He tossed the tail of his hair back between his shoulder blades and tapped his tankard loudly to get the barmaid’s attention. “I will not set foot in your _manor_.” He spat the word out like it was poison and grimaced at his ale as the barmaid refilled it.

But godsforsaken Aymeric _de Borel_ was nothing if not persistent. He tapped his ale for a filling, too. “What about a bargain, then,” he suggested, watching as the brew rose in his own cup. “A challenge, man to man.” Foam brimmed as he gripped the handle of his tankard and lifted it in imitation of a toast. “If I can finish mine faster, you come home with me.”

Estinien snorted loudly. “_Bawdy_.” But his dark eyes glinted, and he grabbed his tankard by the handle, sliding it across the table. “You know I can drink you under the table, you demented dingbat.” He looked at him through his long silver lashes like a wolf sizing up unfortunate prey. “If I finish mine, you never ask me to _come home with you_ again.”

“Seems fair,” Aymeric agreed, pale eyes blank and insipid. His tankard lingered midair. “Do we have an agreement?”

Estinien lifted his ale to knock against Aymeric’s and grunted.

The ghost of a smirk pressed at Aymeric’s lips as he glanced down the bar to find the maid again. He injected his voice with charm. “Beg pardon, miss—” She sidled back over, wiping her hands with a washrag. “Care to arbitrate our challenge?”

Her eyes roved down de Borel’s absurdly beautiful face and frankly _burned_. “Why not?”

Estinien tried not to snort at the way she regarded his nearly celibate companion. _Avert your futile glance_. “Right, then,” he rumbled, bracing himself, taking a breath. “Count us down.”

“Three, two, _one_—”

The ale was cold for once, but burned his throat as he tipped his chin and poured down the entire—

A heavy clunk beside him. He choked on the last dregs of foam and spluttered, slamming down his tankard, glaring at Aymeric. “No way in _seven bloody damned hells—_”

The barmaid was shaking her head, arms crossed. “This one finished first.”

Aymeric tilted his mug to show him. Empty. He wiped his lips with his tongue and the back of his hand and smiled like something feral, like something indisputably _wicked_. “Fair and square,” he said, quirking one handsome black brow. Payment rattled from his hand to the counter and he got to his feet. “And now, if you please, the Manor Borel kitchen awaits—”

“I most certainly _do not please_,” Estinien spat, bristling at him. “You _cheated_, you big buggering—”

But Aymeric was thrusting an arm at his shoulders and flashing a dazzling smile at the barmaid. “Much obliged, my good lady,” he said to her, causing her cheeks to flush.

Estinien struggled away from Aymeric and stalked to the door. He slammed it open and lunged out into the night. Flurries were pouring fat chunks of snow into the streets. Hackles raised, he grimaced at the frosty bits of sky raining down, squared his shoulders against the cold, and hunched at the edge of the wall.

The door swung open and Aymeric closed it politely. “I truly want to _feed you_, you know,” he said, sidling up beside him, shoving his hands in his cloak pockets. A note of dry humor. “Your delicate virtue is safe with me.”

“You make me sound like a bloody stray _hound_,” he grumbled, throwing him a glare. “_I truly want to feed you_,” he mocked, scoffing. But he was swaying slightly forward, slightly away from the tavern.

Aymeric started strolling out into the street, blinking up at the sky, smiling gently at the snowflakes. “Come on then,” he beckoned, glancing back at him. “_Heel_.”

Luckily for him, he managed to duck before the ball of slush hit him in his stupid, handsome face.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *


	4. Prompt #3: Lost (Estinien/WoL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimacing, baring his teeth, he stretched their bodies together and rubbed his grinning lips at her skin like a dumb lost animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien/WoL, Estinien POV. Memory of a moment after the events of "Into the Aery."

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

Atop the split boulder on that mountain, he surveyed the night.

The crescent moon gave him solace, reminded him of something uncanny. The feeling was the same as a dream long lost. He chuckled under his breath; combed one hand through his hair. Callouses and scars caught on long wisps of white-and-silver and he shook his head.

* * *

“It’s stunning.”

One of those nights in her bedroom. He was pinned underneath her. The sweat on their skin was drying and he told himself he only _just tolerated _the closeness; only _humored it _because the bed was soft and warm, and he was _tired_. 

Not that he would admit it.

She raked both of her hands through his hair, _staring _at it sternly, like it was wrought of something truly treasured. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she studied him, _marveling_ like he was a _bloody work of art—_

He scoffed and shoved the flat spread of his hand against her face, hiding her damned moony eyes. She barked a hot laugh into his palm; he could feel the scrape of her teeth. “_Ass_,” she spat, batting his fingers away, grappling his arm back to the mattress. She huffed out a breath and scowled down at him fiercely. “I was trying to be _serious_—”

“I know that,” he grumbled, interrupting, pushing her off him. He slipped out from under the tangle of her legs and hunched to roll from the bedclothes. The moon was bright that night, shining in through the balcony window. The curtains were drawn from the glass; frost hardly fogged it. His _stunning hair_ tickled his bare shoulders as he pressed his bare feet to the cold floor and stood, squinting at the hearth. Only embers.

“Leaving already?”

He glanced back at her through the side of his eye. She was half out of the blankets, still languid from their thrashing. She curled up to a sit and watched him. Eyes that seemed lazy and _bored_ tracked down his long body. _Well_. If she was going to look at him like _that_—

He sauntered toward her washroom. “Going to the _privy_,” he said. “_Then_ leaving.”

She threw a pillow at him, but he was half-crept through the door.

The lamp by the sink was still flickering. He washed his hands, and in the mirror, he combed them through his hair; frowned to survey _himself_. Wild. Unkempt. Tousled and disheveled. He was a lost and untamed thing, now and always.

Snarled in the tangles of silver were fingers with knuckles swollen and rugged from fighting, from ruthlessly gripping a lance—skin swarthy with sun, marred edges ragged with scars, rough and scratchy with callouses—

He looked at his palms and wondered, baldly, why she even let him _touch _her.

When he left the washroom, she was out of the bed, naked and shivering and stoking the fire—using her magic to cheat and set it ablaze. The golden light of the flames limned the flaws in _her _skin, and he felt the heat from the hearth swell to meet him, warm and gentle.

He never planned to cross the room and take her in his arms, but that was exactly what happened—and when the scruffy flats of his hands scrubbed down the front of her body, she melted against him. “I thought you were leaving,” she rasped.

He bent to brush the tip of his nose at her temple; let his hair curtain down to tickle her neck and shoulders. “On the way out,” he promised. But then his lips were on her skin, and she was twisting to face him, smirking. He scowled at her and crushed their mouths together, gripped her neck and chin with unforgiving fingers. But then she was grinning in earnest and he could feel her teeth against his lips. He hissed. “Do not—”

“I hope you know you’re a _terrible_ liar,” she snorted—gulped down a shriek as he manhandled her off the floor. Wielding her like a weapon, he carried her bodily back to the bed. She writhed and tried not to cackle and wake the household. He threw her on the nest of crumpled blankets, and she was smiling, laughing without sound—

He never planned to climb into the bed _with _her again, but that was exactly what happened. Grimacing, baring his teeth, he stretched their bodies together and rubbed his grinning lips at her skin like a dumb lost animal. “I hope you know you _drive me mad_—”

She was stroking her hands through his hair and trying to kiss his cheek through her smile. A pair of fine buggering blighters they were, rolling around in the bedclothes naked as the day they were born, doing nothing but stifling laughter and _smiling—_

Her thumbs were at the corners of his lips and the moons were back in her eyes and she was grinning and staring at him like he was some _bloody magnum opus_, like everything about him was everything she ever could have _searched for_. He thought about pushing her away again, but his arms were too tired, his head too fuzzy, static pricking at his eyes. He aimed the growl on his lips at her throat. “If you call me _stunning _again, I swear—”

A tiny croak of laughter broke free and she scraped her fingertips down his scalp. “Stunning,” she said, and that also sounded like a laugh. “Striking. _Spectacular. Splendiferous—_”

He was biting back a howl—trapping the rest of her godsdamned words with a kiss—tangling their legs together in the blankets and _still bloody smiling_—

Fury, he felt warm in her arms. He almost felt—

_ Found._

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *


	5. Prompt #4: Shifting Blame (Estinien/WoL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What of the myths of concoctions,” he growled, shifting his weight, changing his balance. “Brews and persuasion enchantments.” He dove to clip her at the flank. “You do keep feeding me things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of these have been Estinien POV so far and it's been a super enjoyable accident! Sparring, humor, implied sex. After the events of "Into the Aery."

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

At night, like a moth drawn into a flame, like a haunted man, he _craved her_.

He welcomed those feelings, at night—being seen and longing and _belonging_; being wanted and sought for and _found. _Night upon night, he welcomed the way her arms caged him tight, the way they struggled, and toppled, and _fell_.

Day after day, he despised it.

It felt like a tether in daylight, and he was all wild—unaccustomed to being _possessed_.

“You started this,” he accused her, knowing he was spitting, knowing his nostrils were flaring. He hoped that she cringed and flinched and felt _repulsed _by him because _repulsive _was far stronger than _stunning—_

She shoved him back with the body of her staff and scowled up at him. “And you keep coming _back_.” She countered, lunged closer; pressed her _advantage_.

It was impossible to deny. 

Estinien winced back and his lip curled at the fact that, _somehow,_ _he _was the bloody one _flinching_. The length of his lance made a sharp, metallic sound against her quarterstave as he broke free and leapt overhead. “You hexed me.”

That made her laugh—raw, _cackling_, like the haggling of crows or of ravens—a sound like every legend of _wicked witches indeed_. “_Estinien_,” she snorted, cupping black fire in her hands. Her eyes were like shadows. “I most certainly did _not hex you_.”

He arced away from the ball of flame and landed behind her; snatched for the back of her robes and met nothing but cold air. She ducked down on her knees to avoid him, sliding away. “Some other kind of spell, then,” he grunted, giving chase—tensing his legs to lunge faster—

“No spells,” she barked, diving to the side; surely feeling his aether surge up beside her. She jerked her chin to stare at him fiercely. “Do you truly believe I _bewitched you?_”

Bewitching. That was the word. 

He squared his shoulders and took a rough breath, swiping for her ankles with his weapon. She stumbled to dodge him. “What of the myths of concoctions,” he growled, shifting his weight, changing his balance. “Brews and persuasion enchantments.” He dove to clip her at the flank. “You do keep _feeding me things._”

She laughed again, coarser this time. Her back arched and she flung up a column of stone to thwart him. “_Love potions?_”

He snorted and used one heel to parkour up the rock face. She threw down a current of air to push herself forward, and he grunted as he launched off the outcropping, slicing through the aero. “Conjuring and thaumaturgy—far beyond my ken.” 

She whirled around to face him, thrusting her quarterstave to the side. Ice sprouted from the ground and, quick as lightning, he drilled the tip of his spear down against it for purchase. “Rest assured,” she said, spinning her hands, thickening the rime, “Even if such a thing existed, I would never resort to such measures.” Her dark eyes glittered. “I want you crawling to my bed of your _own_ devices.”

Against his will _yet again_, he was grinning. 

_Cursed._

He swung in a wide circle on the slick, frosty ground, chase uninterrupted. His heart was pounding more and more wildly. She rode a sheet of icicles away from him. “_Wicked_ thing.” His voice simmered as he kept up the hunt, Gae Bolg a glorified walking spike.

She bared her teeth at him in glee. “You could always _stop pursuing me_,” she taunted.

His sinews tensed and he moved even faster, skating close. “I never surrender.”

* * *

Even winded from their sparring, he tackled her to the ground.

She panted, gripping his neck. “Now? In the daytime?” She raked her fingers through his hair.

He could feel his eyes flutter and he cared so little. His blood was on fire and only she could quench it. “Yes.”

Crucial pieces of his armor fell away like shed snakeskin; the bottoms of her robes did the same.

“You started it this time,” she told him, twining their legs. 

He tasted sweat on her neck, where he bit and helplessly licked. “Then help me to end it.”

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *


	6. Prompt #5: Vault (Estinien/WoL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien POV.

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

She was just a lover.

Just a lover. Temporary.

And yet, he vaulted rooftops to reach her—

Breathed her name to the vaulted windows in her bedroom—

Felt his blood howl and pray to the moon vaulted up in the heavens—

She was just a lover. She was just another. 

And yet, he loved her.

He loved her, and he kept her, in the hard, dark vault of his heart.

☾ ☄ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Largely inspired by lyrics from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kf1pVxHqSdI).


	7. Prompt #6: First Steps (Estinien & WoL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want me to leave?”
> 
> No.
> 
> Yes. 
> 
> He hunched away from her. 
> 
> “I want to sleep,” he decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien POV, Estinien & WoL. Established strong friendship & pining.  
Takes place before the events of "Into the Aery," so no lines have been crossed yet.

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

He closed his eyes and stretched out on the pallet, knocking her with an elbow.

She hissed, rearranging herself, and he grunted.

“Be careful with that,” she muttered, voice hoarse.

He opened his eyes to stare at the side of the canvas, bristling. “The tent was designed for _one occupant_,” he groused.

She huffed. “One _ridiculously tall and bony _occupant.” Ironic, since he could feel the ridge of _her_ spine curled at his back, beneath the layers of their nightclothes. “And still much warmer with _two_,” she argued.

A convincing benefit, he had to admit.

Even so, he closed his eyes and scoffed. He was annoyed with her presence. He wanted her to _leave_. Then again, he always seemed to sleep better when she invaded— “Your choice to join me,” he reminded her, voice a bit gruffer, uglier than intended. “Enter at your own damned risk.”

With that, her argument died. After a heavy pause of silence, she sighed instead—offered a weak but observant surrender. “I can leave.”

He _wanted _her to leave. He _did_. 

But his stomach curled in refutation, lip curling soon thereafter. 

“Only if you wish to,” he grumbled.

Another pause. “Do you _want_ me to leave?”

Now his lips were stiff. He opened his eyes to stare at the canvas again. No. _Yes. _He hunched away from her. “I want to _sleep_,” he decided.

Silence. And then the touch of her spine was gone, the canvas rippled—and he was alone.

A breath of frustration escaped him.

He closed his eyes tightly and scowled at nothing, whole body tense. 

No. Alone was good. More than acceptable. He grunted in agreement with himself.

Alone was something he _knew_; a deep instinct—his natural, preferred state of existence. He had no _need_ for the company of others; no _desire_ besides.

His insides writhed in buried denial and he bore down against it.

Not here. Not _now. Not with her._

He huffed again; was met with the sound of rushing fabric and her hiss to follow. “Estinien.”

He moved his head to glare at her from the side of his eye. She was crouched half through the flap, face furrowed with a grimace, cloak and long sleeved nightgown slipping from one sun-blemished shoulder. He tried not to focus on _that_. “What,” he spat.

“You keep making _noises_.” Dark, perceptive eyes, burning him. “Do you want me to stay?”

He was either pouting or frowning. Either way, he cared little. Either way, whatever he did, he had to avoid saying—

“Yes,” he mumbled, under his breath.

She rolled her eyes, but lunged back inside, and he closed his own against the feeling of her warm body stretching down beside him—against the overwhelming surge of _relief_, near satisfaction, that rushed through his bones. 

_Hells damn it._

“I hope you know how difficult you are,” she muttered, wriggling their spines back together.

Even that simple, wholesome contact made his blood want to howl.

He frowned, took a deep breath, and shivered. “I hope you know how maddening _you_ are.”

She writhed behind him for a moment, and then he felt her stretch the breadth of her cloak to cover them both, as best she could. Her smell, like earth and salt and roses, crowded his nose. He shivered again.

_Maddening_.

But, sure as breathing, he began to fall asleep.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *


	8. Prompt #7: Forgiven (Estinien/WoL, Estinien & Aymeric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expanding on a small snippet of a scene between Aymeric and Estinien in ["Astral Fire, Umbral Heart."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668/chapters/28699292)  
Aymeric flashes back on this moment through his own POV in the chapter ["Knights Most Heavenly."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668/chapters/47047981)
> 
> I wanted to explore Estinien's POV for this moment!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien POV, because holy hell I love him so much. Takes place somewhere around the events of "Into the Aery."  
Estinien/WoL pining, along with Estinien & Aymeric and implied historical Estinien/Aymeric.

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

Estinien crossed his arms tightly. 

With Aymeric, of all people, he should be _comfortable. _

But even alone with him in the office, his posture was stiff, the tines of his armor grating together like the gnashing of teeth. “The boy is worse than _you_,” he grumbled, jaw stiff. In the candlelight, the prongs and spines of his helmet cast jagged shadows across the Lord Commander’s desk. “Meek mewling _pest_, through and through.”

_“Estinien,”_ Aymeric scolded, mildly shocked. 

Piercing pale eyes held caution as Aymeric looked up at him, as he beheld Estinien from above his sea of infinite, pitiless _papers_. Estinien would never envy him his position—could hardly fathom why he chose to pursue it, besides. “Master Alphinaud is an envoy and a _Scion,_” his dearest friend was saying, frowning up at him in unhidden censure. Estinien was preparing a wisecrack remark before the next set of words shut him down. 

“Would you say the same of the Warrior of Light?”

Beneath the clutch of his dark drachen armor, under the grid of his ribcage, his heart skipped several measures. Estinien clenched his teeth against it. “No,” he grunted, and it felt like a _confession_. His intestines writhed and his lips pressed together tight.

_Resistance_. But why? For what reason did he hide it?

This was Aymeric, after all. Aymeric, his finest comrade and keeper.

Estinien was glad his eyes were hidden by his visor as he spoke his next line. “She is tolerable enough.” And then his blood waged a wild rebellion in his chest.

Tolerable enough. _Tolerable enough?_

Tell him how she burns you, you _coward. _Tell him how she sets you on _fire_.

Tell him, _tell him_—

Aymeric was laughing without sound, his mouth full of breath. He focused on the parchment in his hands, paging through it blandly. “High praise indeed,” he said, and his voice was bored and mild. Still, Estinien knew the remark was not a jest. 

_Tell him you suffer, you daft unhinged dimwit—_

“She is stern and strong,” Estinien muttered instead, veins and sinews itching. The plates of his armor rattled together as he prowled a slow circle in the room. _Confess it you nutter, you cursed, curdled clodpole— _“She is a suitable ally.”

Were he alone and not wearing his helmet, Estinien would have ripped out his own godsforsaken hair.

“Better and better,” Aymeric taunted, discerning _something, _nonetheless. He was uncapping an inkwell, eyes still trained on his desk, and for that Estinien supposed he was glad. “Did she best you in battle?”

_Yes. And then she sent me up the pole and off my godsdamned trolley and left me deranged as a hatter—_

His face twisted up in a hard and aching grimace. “I know not how to counter her black magicks,” he grumbled, referring to aether and everything _else_. “But I _will _learn.”

_All the better if you had your brother in arms might-as-well-be-a-brother-and-more-besides to bloody buggering help you—_

Aymeric was grinning—grinning down at the paper he was signing—darting his dementedly dazzling eyes back up to inspect him. His next words were unmistakably goading. “Let me know when you challenge her again.”

_Tell him, you senseless excuse for an arsecheek. Tell him, tell him—_

Estinien scowled and stalked to the exit. 

“I will be sure to send an invitation,” he barked, in lieu of a concession.

Out in the Congregation, as he loped to the door, his mind swarmed with chidings and bitter self-hatred. He never concealed things from Aymeric. Never, never. It was sacrilege to think it, let alone to _perpetrate the act._

And yet, here he was, committing the unforgivable.

And _why?_ What was the _reason? _What in seven swiving hells was he _afraid of?_

The sun was bright, and the air was cold, and he slammed the door shut behind him, and ran.

He ran because he always ran. He ran because he hated standing _still_.

But of all the things he ran from, he knew the _truth_ would find him. And deep in the pit of his stomach he hoped that when it did, when it chased and struck and lashed back to bite him—

He hoped in the future, he might be forgiven.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien used UNMISTAKABLE ADORATION!
> 
> Estinien's heart is confused!  
It hurt itself in its confusion!


	9. Prompt #21: Crunch (Estinien & Sadness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aye,” he muttered, staring at Estinien almost numbly before turning to Alberic again. “My mother, she—fares worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien POV, pre-ARR but after the Calamity.
> 
> This one broke my heart.

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

Estinien carried the heavy armful of snow-dusted firewood back to Alberic.

He was helping to store it, squinting at the worsening weather, when the cloaked figure arrived on chocoback. Both he and his adoptive father paused in the midst of hefting and stowing the kindling; surveyed the evident haste of their unexpected visitor in unhidden surprise. Estinien scowled. “What in the name of the Fury—”

The intruder was dressed head to toe in black, fringed with a sprinkling of snowflakes. Gloves tightened on the reins to bring their beast of burden to a halt. The person vaulted easily down from the saddle; shoved back the cowl of their cloak to reveal mussed black hair, a face peaked and sallow from the cold. To an outside observer, the ride in the snow might explain the colorless depths of his expression. But Estinien knew the man better than anyone else, and he knew in this instant that Aymeric was wan and ashen thanks to some carefully veiled emotion. Pallid as he was, Aymeric still looked almost godly. 

“Ser Alberic,” he said, a white cloud lifting from his mouth. He bowed to greet the older man first. Another breath became a mist upon his lips, and his sharp, pale, dissecting eyes flicked to Estinien. “Ser Estinien,” he said, bowing again, snow beginning to catch in the dark of his hair.

Estinien could feel his face crinkling, grimacing, and he forced it to be flinty instead. “Ser Aymeric,” he said, stone and gravel in his voice. “Is aught amiss?”

A flicker of sentiment broke through the glacial stillness of Aymeric's mien, then. “Aye,” he muttered, staring at Estinien almost numbly before turning to Alberic again. “My mother, she—fares worse.”

“Halone.” Alberic threw his firewood to the ground and strode up to Aymeric at once, bracing both arms around him firmly. Aymeric eagerly returned the gesture, fully embracing the older man. From his perspective, Estinien could see the way Aymeric’s brows knitted; the way, for a moment, he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against what was doubtless the urge to loose a sob. Then a mask of stoicism slid back into place. 

Alberic took a step back, holding Aymeric by the shoulders. “What can we do for you, my boy?”

Aymeric looked almost vacant now, tranquil and distant and _political_. Recently, his self-control, his _command_ over his emotions, had become something near to chilling. “She requests to speak with Estinien,” he supplied, cool blue eyes flicking to the person in question. “I am here at her behest to bring him to the manor.”

He looked so icy. So _serene_. Estinien stared hard at that wintry demeanor and fought the urge to yell. Of all the times for Aymeric to allow himself to be something other than _impassive_—

“Take me to her,” Estinien barked. As Aymeric mounted the saddle again, Alberic stepped up to relieve Estinien of his armful of brushwood so he could swing his legs around the pillion.

Halfway back to Ishgard, Estinien shoved himself hard at Aymeric’s back to speak into his ear. “Tell me how she fares, in no uncertain terms,” he demanded. Intuition curled, seasick, in his spine.

The snow and ice crunched beneath the feet of the feathered beast and Aymeric’s shoulders rose with a breath. His voice was quiet and resigned. “She is dying, Estinien.”

* * *

Wrapped in the duvet and propped up on tufted pillows, Melisandre de Borel looked comfortable. 

Peaceful.

She was very thin now. Her friable skin creped at the hollows of her cheeks, drained of its once golden color. Her auburn hair, streaked white and silver and faded with her age, was gathered half beneath a frilled cap. “Estinien,” she rasped, blinking over at him. “Heaven bless.” Her eyes were piercing as always, but they were lined with bruised crescents, lips chapped, her body failing as a vessel. With one hand she beckoned for him to cross the room, and he obeyed at once.

Aymeric made to follow, but she shook her head. “Leave us a moment.”

“Of course.” Aymeric’s voice was quietly frail. “I will be in the hall.”

The door closed behind him, and Estinien sank gently at the edge of her bed. 

She tilted her chin to survey him. It was strange to see her like this. Meek though she could be in the company of her peers, other highborns_—_carefully measured and obeisant—he had come to know the Vicomtesse as full of hidden power. She was possessed of a might of character, cold and solemn, comparable to the now ceaseless winter around them.

In some cases, he knew she was just as unforgiving.

“My dear,” she croaked, reaching for him with one feeble hand. “I am not long for this world.”

Estinien took her arthritic fingers in his—so much _bone_, beneath such soft, delicate skin—and felt his jaw clench as his lips pressed together. He tried to think of something to say, something to _do_, anything other than sit there and _stare at her_. All that came out of him was a grunt.

She smiled weakly. “Oh, how much I love you, hardhearted son.” Her words were thin and close to a sigh. Her hand trembled in his and he knew she wanted to lift it. “Help me touch your face.”

He did. The pads of her fragile fingers spread to catch the span of his cheek, to feel the silvery wisps of his hair. There was so much warmth in her eyes as she studied him. In that moment, he let himself be loved—by _her_—opened his heart to this person he well and truly cared for.

Now she was going and dying like the rest of them, leaving him behind to bloody _survive_. 

He took a coarse breath, and her thumb traced a path by his nose. 

“Will you make me a promise, Estinien?”

His fingers tensed against the hand on his face. “Aye.”

The skin around her eyes crinkled and she smiled; then she was racked with a fit of coughing. He lunged forward to hold her as she doubled over off the pillows, wheezing and hacking and trembling like a leaf caught in a fierce blizzard wind. He smoothed soothing hands down her back; felt every ridge of her backbone through the silken fabric of her nightgown. Estinien shuddered with the urge to shout and sob but quelled it—swallowed it and packed it down hard.

Her breathing slowed and steadied, and the rattle in her chest settled. There in his arms, she quaked with a winded chuckle; rested, far too light, against his chest. “Take care of him.” It was little more than a puff of breath. “Aymeric,” she whispered. “Watch him for me.”

Estinien went lock jawed at the feeling of tears seeping from his eyes.

He hunched over her as though that could protect her—as though, with the shield of his body, he could stop whatever was _taking her away_. He could feel himself shaking but he cared so very little. He held her, tight and gentle. “You have my word,” he croaked, unsteady.

Weak, brittle arms wrapped around his waist. “I love you like my own,” she told him.

He closed his eyes. “And I you, my lady Melisandre.”

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment if you liked anything in particular, or have any kind of feedback whatsoever! I'm super friendly and I love responding. It's the comments that truly keep me inspired <3


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